Guardians of the Portals (26 page)

The red hair always amused her. She pulled at the unruly mop, so different in feel and texture than her own pin straight, muddy blonde tresses. The tee-shirt strained against now generous breasts, though without containment the effect seemed matronly rather than alluring. She smoothed the soft cotton and adjusted the neckline to accommodate her body's new proportions. Her finger tips brushed across her nipples, the sensation oddly arousing as the nubs hardened instantly.

She flushed. Muscle memory.
His
fingers, thick, calloused, rough. Assaulting, demanding, owning her body—a possession so pure, so simple ... so right. His and his alone.

But no longer...

This new link was like a dam breached as Wolf's hard body pressed against hers, a wall of passion loosed in a rush. It settled into a steady flow, never ending, sluicing through her center.

What was happening to her? Why him? Why now?

She hadn't meant to change. Her body had automatically responded to the remembered stimulation. She wondered if each time she shifted, the template became permanent, filed away for later, then unconsciously selected to suit circumstances, an Amazon warrior for him, prim proper schoolteacher for someone else. Mercifully it hadn't happened when he'd practically crushed her against the door jamb.
That
might have been difficult to explain.

"At least you didn't turn into the Friday blue plate special or shrimp-on-the-barbie." She laughed at her reflection. She really needed to regain control over the process.

Caitlin shrugged into her jacket and grumbled, "Oh shit," when it wouldn't close. Her broad shoulders and ample breasts were several sizes beyond her normal lean frame. She pulled it off and grabbed the man's wool plaid jacket, examining it critically. She would swim in it but at least it buttoned and would keep her warm. Gathering her long hair into a knot and stuffing it into a watch cap, she slipped on thick insulated gloves and sheepskin-lined boots, then headed into the corridor and exited through a people door at the back end of the garage.

Though only mid-afternoon, the heavy cloud cover and light snow blanketed the clearing in a uniform pale monochrome of grey-on-grey. Dense woods lay in every direction—trees, brush, deer paths, a small catchment pond at the base of the drive, rotted out fencing guarding a weed-strewn vegetable patch. This had once been a viable settlement; the knoll on which the cabin now stood had been cleared and planted. The settlers had claimed the land one rock at a time—a laborious task—and stacked precisely to fit each stone, edges tight, mortar-free. She'd yet to find the end of the property line on her rare forays into the outside world. After her weeks of exposure to the alien environment, she'd preferred to stay inside, safe and protected, if only in her mind.

Caitlin followed a disappearing line of boot tracks, obviously
his
. The man often prowled the grounds, bent on some silent sentinel task. He did not keep to a routine. She never knew when he'd be about, interfering in her thoughts and commanding her attention. She resented the intrusion into her plans. So much of her training required meditative silence and a concentration on inner space. Simply the presence of another person disrupted her attempts to understand and control the process.

She longed for the less complicated days when her ability to change shape amounted to a clever parlor trick, done to amuse her parents and Kieran. She remembered watching her mother morph in front of her eyes, ever so subtle shifts that stripped years from her face, and the hollowed out yearning in her father's eyes on the rare times they came together as a family. She and Kieran never once questioned their mother's decision to stay on the homestead on the Eastern Shore of Maryland while Jake spent his Marine career stationed across the bay. It might as well have been on the moon so seldom did he visit. Yet he was the one she adored, along with her brother, the men in her life always her singular focus. Her mother had been nothing so much as competition for their affections and attention.

Shuddering, she regretted the sudden insight into the dynamics that made her the empty shell she'd become. Eirik's tutelage and focus on the past had loosed her own carefully segmented memories—memories that threatened to overwhelm her with needs and desires she'd long denied.

He had changed all of that with a simple touch...

The rapidly filling indentations ended at the base of the driveway, then doubled back on a parallel track. The man—Wolf— had come to look for the mail, or check on the state of the road. Plows did come through regularly as the property sat on a county road, though the lane-and-a-half sandy path barely qualified. It had a name, bestowed in some distant past—Owens Bridge Road. Apparently the sandy track led to the Owen's place two miles up the mountain, crossing a bridge at some point—such were geographic names in the Green Mountains. There were few road signs and the ones placed by the county often carried names at odds with local usage. If Owens lived up that road, by default it was his road, the naming part of the rights of settlement. The locals had geography and topography hard-coded into their genetic structure. Only newcomers, summer people with their dainty cottages and improvements, required the formality to cement their visitation rights.

Eirik had taken her to the grocery store, located in a cluster of buildings at the base of the mountain. She tried to recall when they'd gone. It was still hard to measure time after her weeks in a skewed madhouse where night and day could only be measured by fear and the never-ending threat of death. The leaves had changed so it must have been in early October. They'd gone in hopes of tempting her with homemade pies and other sweets when all attempts to get her to eat seemed destined to failure. She'd loved the ambiance. Scarred wood floors, a pot-bellied stove commanding pride of place in the center of the store, around which barrels and shelves and antique cane-back chairs invited a visit and reaffirmation of community—all reminded her of home. She missed that rural life, though hers had had a softer Southern upbringing, where grace and good manners gave the illusion of friendliness. Here, it was all hard-edged, prickly, we-take-care-of-our-own. But she'd felt the old woman's assessment and look of understanding as Eirik had drooled over the crumb cakes and French Silk pies, urging her to sample one or the other. She'd tasted the explosion of goodness on her tongue but gagged at the feel of food passing down her throat.

She'd always been on the thin side, unlike everyone else in the family, even her mother. Her father was medium height, shorter than her mother by an inch or so, stocky and tough. A Marine by temperament and avocation, Kieran had his mother's height and stunning looks, as well as her self-absorption and predatory nature. But the last time she'd seen her brother, before her flight into madness and losing her heart and soul to the devil, he'd been a wraith, a shadow of himself, wasting away.

Annoyed, Caitlin kicked at the metal bar holding up the mailbox. She grew weary with memories, they buried her, stifling her focus. She need remember only that evil had a name—Greyfalcon—and that her brother was now collateral damage in some vague cosmic war for mastery of the universe. She smirked at that. It sounded trite but carried elements of truth. That there was weight and import to the nature of the conflict to come simply reaffirmed her commitment, though in truth she needed little motivation. Hate had supplanted all other emotions.

She turned away from the road and angled uphill, weaving between tree trunks. The surface still retained an icy patina, the light snow not reaching the ground under the tight canopy of maples and oaks. The flakes lazed through the upper reaches, layering in the higher branches, weighting them down until they'd release in a springboard cascade of thick clumps. She punched through, heel first, her body bent at the waist, and pulled forward. The toe of the boot caught under a rim of ice and jerked at her calf. It released, pitching her forward. She laughed out loud as she tumbled face first into a mound of snow, feeling child-like, carefree.

With a giggle, she lunged uphill, wishing with all her might she could turn into a plow, but content that her Xena-form seemed up to the task.

Take my hand, sweet companion. We have hours to go before we sleep... Caitlin nodded in rhythm to the words. Hours. To. Go. Her friend and confidant had a poetic streak, though it should not surprise. Revenge wore many personas and she was eager to meet them all.

****

"S
it down, Wolf." Eirik pointed to a chair next to a small pine roll-top desk. “Please.”

Wolf reluctantly sat on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt. His groin ached and his gut felt like he'd drunk a flagon of pure acid. He so seldom lost control that it was a heady experience, consuming him, going so far beyond simple lust that he was compelled to pursue it, wherever it led him. That it came from her was a shock. But there was no mistaking the mutual flood of energies he'd inadvertently tapped. Even his gothi had noted the exchange. He could understand Eirik's concern, even he would feel the same if it were him having to deal with one of his men in a similar situation. But he wasn't Eirik and he really didn't give a shit. He tapped his foot impatiently.

Eirik sat on a leather chair and rolled it close to the desk. He liked to gather his thoughts, taking his time nesting the slats, making sure they advanced evenly. The desk had been a gift from a local woman and until now Wolf hadn't really been curious about that relationship or when it had occurred. Everything suggested it had been a most pleasant interlude, obviously mutual, judging from the care with which she'd selected the item. He sighed, not caring that he'd caught Eirik's attention. He had little patience for his gothi to play the age card this day. He allowed his men to believe him off on flights of fancy, doddering down memory lane or 'wool-gathering' as Trey had been so fond of calling it. But the nephew had been cannier than most and rarely allowed the old man the luxury of collecting his thoughts.

Damn it, why was Trey intruding?
He sensed the man's presence as if he were in the same room but just out of line-of-sight.

Eirik pulled a computer notebook from a drawer, attached the power cord and handed the plug over for him to insert in the outlet. As he bent over he felt the telltale flush and nervous twitching ramp up again, as if he'd ingested uppers or some other stimulant. He'd never felt so compromised in his life and it spoke volumes about the woman's powers.

Eirik tapped at the keys and cleared his throat. Apparently he was ready to discuss 'the situation'.

"I was, uh, waiting for the energies to dissipate." That Eirik came right to the point snapped him to full attention. Perhaps there would be answers to questions he had no clue how to frame. "I sympathize, Wolf. Few have ever had that gift—some would call it a curse, that sharing of powers. To my knowledge none of us has ever tested positive for it, but then we've never had another with such commensurate talents."

Clear as mud
.

Eirik jotted a few notes on the keyboard and shoved the small computer to the rear of the desk. Spinning his chair, he gravely asked, "So Liuthr, are you ready to talk?"

Stifling his concern at the use of his given name, he sat straighter, fully expecting a disciplinary lecture and a possible dismissal. He had no clue what 'ready to talk' meant. As usual Eirik used vague, diplomatic language, couching his true intentions with misdirection. He much preferred the direct approach so he took a deep breath and asked the thing he needed to know, "Is she a siren, sir?"

Eirik muttered 'ah' and tapped his brow. "I am impressed that you would draw that conclusion. Quite rational that. And not far off the mark."

Eirik watched him carefully, for it was his one major failing—his eyes gave him away every time. According to all who knew him, he was incapable of subterfuge no matter how carefully he controlled his body or disciplined his mind. It was the reason he preferred the battlefield to the clan long-lodges, their halls filled with bickering and under-the-table deals.

"It's not what you think, my boy. What you felt was real and for you alone."

Wolf sputtered, "But I don't understand."

"Well, in truth that makes two of us." Eirik stared into space, before continuing in a low voice, almost talking to himself. "She's a late bloomer. Untrained. Her mother had similar abilities but for some reason distanced herself from her daughter."

Wolf wasn't interested in a history lesson but knew he'd have to interact on some level to move things along, so he asked, "Why?"

"I have some ideas on that, but basically the answer is 'I don't know'. I've noted—as have some of our researchers—that something interferes with her shifting. It should be under her conscious control. She told me that she used to shift at will, with some effort and concentration, of course. She indicated it got easier if she had what she calls a 'template'."

Now that Eirik shared real insight into the process, the tactician in him finally allowed him to focus not just on the words but the hidden meanings. Either the effects wore off after a time or his brain and body learned to adjust to the demands of the energies.

He asked, genuinely curious, "Do you have solid evidence of that ability?"

Eirik rubbed his palms over his wool trousers, debating how much to share. "It's what she did that night at Greyfalcon. It fooled Knutr and even her brother." Wolf raised his eyebrows. "Yes, she's that good that she can deceive blood relations."

"So what is keeping her from shifting now?"

"Oh, she can still shift. I've seen her do it but it takes a great deal of time and is often incomplete. What intrigues me is that channel of energy that passed between you. Not many of us can do that, you know."

"I don't understand. Do what exactly?"

"Share energy. It means that whatever talents you each have, when you share the energy, those gifts are enhanced, amplified. That's the theory at least."

"Theory. Is this all supposition?"

"No, we have records going back generations where a select few have been so blessed, but it is rare, very rare indeed. Our researchers would love to find a way to genetically enhance for this trait. There are obvious advantages."